


Guilty Filthy Soul

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:51:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a reason why Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty grew up to be so different despite being built in the exact same way. It's all down to one man, and only him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilty Filthy Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MayMarlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayMarlow/gifts).



> Before anyone asks, YES, it was absolutely necessary to make this Wholock.
> 
> I'm not here to give Sherlock and Jim a backstory. I'm not here to explain anything. I'm here to confuse you, and hopefully make you feel things. Maybe there will be more questions raised that will not and should not be answered. With these two, nothing is ever simple. That's why I love this ship so much. 
> 
> And if you throw The Doctor in the mix... Well, it's not his happy, cheery, bow tie loving side that we get to encounter here, that much I can tell you. 
> 
> Happy birthday, MayMarlow darling! <3 If you don't like your present, I'm sure we can arrange a date with chocolate cake and tea, or something. 
> 
> Named after a song by AWOLNATION. [This](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPtSKimbjOU) is the soundtrack for this fic. It's a different song.
> 
> Inkeri, out. Supposedly deep and meaningful rant over.

When Jim Moriarty was little, he had an imaginary friend. Or at least that's what everybody used to tell him, until he stopped trying to convince them otherwise. The Doctor was actually very real indeed, no matter what anyone else might have thought or said. His friend, the imaginary man who could change his face. He was the most feared being in all of cosmos. The Oncoming Storm, they called him. The Bringer of Darkness. The Doctor; the healer, the warrior. He was wonderful. Amazing. A miracle. Unlike anyone, anything else in the universe. Almost untouchable. And definitely impossible to forget. 

When Jim was nine, he decided he would try his hardest to one day be like The Doctor.

The Doctor has many names, but in the end, he is just a man with a blue box, running away from something invisible through time and space, never once stopping, never even considering to return. Most people can't see it, because he never talks about himself. But Jim was different, has always been. Jim could _see things_ , and understand what it meant. Jim could see people, see how they functioned. Their minds, even when they were inexplicably complicated. Their lives, even when they were impossibly long. Their bodies, even when he had never seen anything like it before.

It was hard for Jim to understand. The Doctor was wonderful, like a storm in the heart of the Sun, but always trying so hard to be something else, to the point where it was almost disgusting. Who would ever strive to be ordinary? Who would ever want to be normal, boring, like everyone else?

For a long time, Jim let all that go. The Doctor took Jim to see things and places he could never have dreamed of, all in a great big attempt at distracting himself of whatever else was his life. He taught Jim how to run, how to fight for himself and others, how to make choices, do the right thing, or then something else. Be that as it may, The Doctor made Jim's life worthwhile and interesting for the first time in his life.

The Doctor has a side of himself that he probably wouldn't ever have wanted for anyone to see. But Jim figured it out. The Doctor wasn't as kind as he let people believe, never kind at all. Just lonely, and desperate. But also powerful, frightening, strong. Someone to respect, someone to run away from. Someone to follow. Someone to bring the universe on its knees, trembling, begging. Definitely someone to make an impression on a little boy who had always felt out of place. For such a boy, definitely someone to impress. 

Too late, The Doctor noticed what he had done, that he'd chosen the wrong child to travel with, and he left. That was a mistake. Because Jim was never someone who could easily forgive.

When Jim was ten, he decided he would spend the rest of his life getting back at him. 

***

Without The Doctor, everything is dull. That's what his life has become.

The world loses most of its flavour and colour, or maybe it's more about noticing it never really had any. Life becomes one mundane day after another. It's unbearable, because to Jim, mundane is poison, to both his spirit and his body, and every day he grows up a little more frustrated, a little more twisted. Jim is nothing like anyone else he knows, and nobody he knows is like The Doctor. He doesn't know anyone who has seen what he has, not a single person who would understand. 

When Jim first notices Sherlock, he is sixteen, and he instantly knows he has found something very close to what he once lost. They meet, once or twice, and then again and again and _again_ until they both lose count, and it's the best thing that has happened to him in a long time. The best thing that has happened to either of them, really.

"I used to know a man just like you," Jim says once, and it makes Sherlock smile.

"Did you, now?"

Jim tells him. It's the only thing he has to offer that is even remotely close to what Sherlock means to him. His stories of The Doctor are so wonderful that they almost seem unreal, just like fairy tales, at least for everyone else. To him, they are more, a story built out of desperation, comforting words of a better world that exists out there, somewhere. Jim doesn't know whether Sherlock believes his stories to be real, but that hardly matters. He always listens, and never says anything.

They would probably fall in love, if that were the sort of thing either of them would ever do, but they don't. It's always about how they're almost like at war, at all times, by accident; about the way they are the same, too similar to ever see the other without his faults. 

But it doesn't mean they keep a distance. It's all far too intriguing. 

***

"What happened to Carl Powers, Jim?"

"I don't know."

Jim throws the apple core out of the window and looks the other way. Squints. It's raining.

"Yes, you do."

Sherlock is always right.

***

The room is small, damp, and stuffy. It's freezing cold, and the sheets have blood stains on them. The lamp is broken; the pale, dirty-looking light leaking in through the filthy windows is the only light they have. It's all they need, though, so it's fine. Jim has lived there for six weeks now, so he's probably moving out fairly soon. Sherlock has no idea when or where. He doesn't ask. He'll find out soon enough. Jim never stays in one place for long. It's more fun that way, he says. 

The bed creaks every time they move. They don't give a fuck. Poor Mrs Robertson downstairs, but that's life for you, and sometimes you just need to make due.

Later that very same Tuesday afternoon, two post-coital cigarettes glow in the dusty twilight of the room, and Sherlock looks a little like something from a horror story. Jim stares at him, through him, past him; stares at the ceiling, the nicotine stains on the walls that used to be bone-white some centuries ago. He's still a bit out of breath.

"I have never killed anyone, you know," Jim mutters. He should probably sound like he feels _something_ , at least, but he doesn't. What he says is just words.

"First, you're nineteen. It shouldn't be an achievement. Second, I'm pretty sure you're lying."

"It doesn't mean nobody's ever died because of me. I just don't like getting my hands dirty. It's so... Vulgar."

"Why do you even do it?"

"It's fun. And I get bored. You get that, right?" 

"You are a complete maniac, I hope you know," Sherlock says, but he's smiling, and Jim doesn't even need to see his face to know that. Sherlock understands where Jim is coming from all too well to try and pretend he doesn't approve, and he certainly doesn't need to tell Jim that. He will not.

"So I've been told. But you love it."

"I really fucking do."

"Thanks, darling. Anyway, it's a tragedy, really. Nothing really feels like anything after you've spent years travelling through time and space, shooting up mortal danger and mind-blowing adventures like it's fucking heroin. When I was a kid, I spent rather a lot of time just running around with a bloke who is really good at getting in serious trouble. It's left a mark."

Sherlock laughs and stubs his cigarette out against the headboard. "How you've managed to survive this long, I'll never know."

"Dumb luck and an ill-considered deal with the devil."

"The devil?"

"Well... The next best thing."

"Oh, him."

"You know, half the time you sound as though you know him."

"I know the effect he's had on you. It's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

"You haven't even scratched the surface."

"How would you know."

"I haven't let you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. It's not a question. It's an acknowledgement: If you speak, I will listen. If you'd rather not, it's fine, but I will draw my conclusions.

Jim stares at him for a bit and then smiles. When he speaks, he sounds almost serious. He's still telling a story, though. He always is, and even Sherlock can't tell what's true most of the time. Jim talks, slowly, listening to himself more carefully than anybody else, fascinated by every word. Like even he doesn't know what happens next.

"The moment I first saw you, I wanted to have you for myself. That's because I got spoilt by him. I got arrogant. When he left, I was nauseous with boredom every second of every day. It gets too much at first, and then never enough. Once you've been granted that freedom, that heart-burning joy of realisation, this isn't all there is after all - and then forced to give it up cold turkey... You start struggling for breath and, actually, struggling to remember why breathing is important, at all. It gets boring, and suffocating, and it turns into a heartburn that doesn't. Ever. Stop. This entire planet turns into a giant prison filled with nobodies, mindless animals, just - nothing. And there is no way out. None."

Eyes gleaming, Jim throws the ashtray to the wall. Sherlock would laugh, but he's too captivated by what Jim is saying to do anything, because he knows what Jim is talking about. The agony of seeing everything around you so clearly, when nobody else even turns to look, painfully aware of the inevitable fact that none of it will ever be enough to get really interesting. And then - he can just imagine - to be shown what it could be, what it's like out there, and then to be reminded that it just... _Isn't._

He shifts closer to Jim, and decidedly doesn't hold his hand. They don't do that.

"I just get _so bored_ ," Jim whines like a five-year-old. "I hate it, Sherlock."

"I know you do."

Jim turns to look at him with wild eyes, and bites his shoulder.

"Can I suck your cock now?"

"You've got horribly needy lately. What happened to that sniper boytoy of yours? Sebastian or whatever the fuck he was called."

"You know perfectly well what he's called. You're just trying to pretend you don't care."

"I don't."

"You lie, Sherlock," Jim mutters, and he's using his psycho crimelord voice, it's endearing. (And it really shouldn't turn Sherlock on as much as it does.) "You lie, but you're not fooling me."

"What if you indeed start sucking my cock now and shut up for a bit?"

"You're just saying that because you know I'm right."

"I say that because your voice is giving me a headache, and you seem to have lost your ability to form coherent sentences."

"You love me, that's why. And it's not my fault you make me come so hard I forget how to speak properly."

Sherlock closes his eyes. He has nothing to prove.

"We should do heroin," he says instead.

"Absolutely a brilliant idea. Also, I nicked us handcuffs. Proper ones."

"Lovely. Now get to it, you slut."

Jim laughs, and does as he's told.

***

The Doctor sometimes creeps up to Jim in his dreams, and tells him that he never deserved any of it. Any of what, Jim shouts after him as he walks away, any of what, scratching the ground and spitting mud and blood _and where did that come from, is that even mine_ , watching the TARDIS disappear, and the noise tugs at his heartstrings, the wind brings tears to his eyes. Any of what, you useless piece of shit, you shattered my soul and then took whatever was left and never gave me anything in return, yes, I sure did not deserve that. Nobody does. Nobody fucking does.

You could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve me, The Doctor tells him, and he's lying, because The Doctor lies, but his voice sounds like he means it anyway. Jim doesn't care. He can make it. And then it's suddenly about Sherlock, and that's what makes him scream.

The angels push him over the edge to another time, and he wakes up panting and crying. Sometimes Sherlock is with him, holds him close when he can't breathe, but never says anything, never asks. 

In the morning, Jim cooks Sherlock an omelette while listening to The Smiths. _To die by your side is the most heavenly way to die_. Singing along, dancing around in the kitchen in his underwear and a t-shirt he's stolen. _(Borrowed.)_ He does that, because he doesn't like saying thank you. He doesn't like being in anybody's debt. 

_Panic on the streets of London_. It's inspiring, he says. Doesn't notice Sherlock's raised eyebrow and reluctant smile. Refuses to notice, hence did not happen. That's how simple it is for them. That's how complicated. 

Nothing can ever touch him when he's awake. So he stays awake, as much as he can. Sherlock adjusts. Jim doesn't care whether it's out of obligation, or guilt, or something else (love). He's just pleased that's how things are.

***

"Will you go to a funeral with me," Jim asks Sherlock while brushing his teeth. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and lights a cigarette.

"I'm not sure that I want to."

"Come on. She was family. Sort of."

"Family? Surely you don't mean... Well, family?"

"Well, not as such, no. She committed suicide. I may have had something to do with her husband's tragic and untimely death. And hers as well, although it mostly depends on your point of view, to be perfectly frank."

"No, thanks. I have no interest in spending a day as your arm candy while you gloat about the numerous contributions you've made to reducing the human population."

"You're no fun."

"Am I not?"

"Prove me wrong."

"What did you have in mind?"

"We should totally have sex with someone we can kill afterwards."

"No."

"Spoilsport."

"Whatever you say."

"Come on, Sherlock, come to the funeral. It will be fun, I promise."

"No. I'm not impressed. Go and be proud of what you've done all by your merry self."

Jim hums around his toothbrush. Cheerful.

"Wouldn't it be amazing if the priest was shot during the service?"

"I am _not_ answering that."

***

Sherlock is really great. Smart, like actually smart, intriguing, fun; not what ordinary people mean when they say someone's smart, which is usually not smart at all. Sherlock can be surprising. Sherlock can be exciting. Sherlock knows perfectly well that Jim is completely out of his mind, but doesn't let it be an issue. Sherlock is someone Jim can look up to, someone he can mock and ridicule, all in good faith. Somewhat. 

Sherlock is far from ordinary, but better in sync with the world, of sorts. Rather a lot like what Jim would probably have become, if he'd never left this planet, got greedy, he supposes. Sherlock is used to the fact that nothing is ever going to change, that the wheel will keep turning, and nothing is ever new. He's accepted all that, and now he's on the side of the angels, as it were. Whereas Jim will never accept, will never adjust, will keep destroying and confusing the ordinary people, will always lack any respect for human life. Angels. Just empty. No ambition. No ideas. Just pieces in a game, disposable, easy to use. Jim has no respect.

Sherlock understands Jim. He hardly approves, but he knows how Jim feels, and Jim doesn't need anybody's approval anyway. Sherlock will still fuck him like he's the only person in the world, will still hold him down with long, bruising fingers, and whisper in his ear _you don't deserve to live_. Sherlock will still thrust into him over and over with a force that moves his insides, and Jim will smile and laugh and think about what his life has become, everything he's lost, and Sherlock will wrap his fingers around Jim's throat and Jim will come hard, gasping, choking, crying, trashing, and he will pass out before Sherlock lets go. 

Sherlock, ice-cold through and through, blue and white eyes like knives against Jim's consciousness, darkened with not just lust, but fear. If Sherlock's weeping, Jim doesn't notice.

_You don't deserve to die._

***

They grow to take each other for granted over the years. They reach rock bottom and climb up again - sort of. Sherlock goes around solving crimes that, more often than not, have something to do with Jim. They don't talk about that. It's work, and they don't talk about work.

***

It's November. That doesn't matter; that sort of thing hasn't mattered for a long time, now. They're drinking horrible whisky and smoking. Jim is high, and he's counting his fingers over and over again like he can't remember, like he can't be sure he hasn't lost any. Sherlock is staring at the wallpaper. He's not used to it. The flat is still new, he's just moved in, and he really needs a roommate because he won't be able to pay the rent on his own for very long. The landlady will look it through her fingers for a bit, but even she can't keep doing that for all eternity. Jim won't move in with him (the idea frightens him, although he would never admit that), not even though he stays there most of the time anyway. 

Sherlock doesn't have anybody else. 

"I sometimes think he's going to come back," Jim suddenly says, not moving his gaze from his fingers.

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"I'm like this now because I was so scared for so long, you know. It would make anyone cruel."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"I don't know what I ever did to him."

Sherlock gets up, walks to the window, and looks out. It's dark, quiet, raining. Nothing is ever new.

***

Every wait is worth something. 

It takes years for The Doctor to finally come back and, surprisingly, it doesn't change a thing. It's been too long, and Jim has been _so bored_ , and now he's found new people he finds amusing. The Doctor has taught him that the difference between right and wrong is always just a choice away, and Jim has spent half his life deliberately making the wrong choices. But at least it is a break from the eternally mundane existence that is being stuck on this Level 5 Planet that most people don't even consider noteworthy. So stupid, so limited in their understanding of the universe. What they say is so arrogant, and the truths so simple, but not what they want to hear. _There is nothing out there, because we can't see anything_ , they say. You don't look. You don't want to see. _Nobody is interested in us, therefore we are alone_ , they say. You are not interesting. Simple as that.

It's arrogant, stupid, narrow-minded. It's frustrating.

Over the years, Jim often thinks about how wonderful it would be to introduce Sherlock to The Doctor, but in the end, that never happens, and it's probably only a good thing. They are, always were, both something he doesn't want to share, not even when it's with each other. Especially not then, maybe. Jim doesn't want to think about what it might come down to. And The Doctor is someone he needs to leave behind, because he can never be the person The Doctor would have wanted him to become.

Their encounter is brief and painful. 

"You don't get it, do you, Doctor. I don't need you anymore. I am closer to the Devil now than any man will ever be. I don't need to run to the next best thing anymore."

"You don't know me at all, do you, Jim," The Doctor mutters, and lets out a dry laugh.

"You've changed."

"I haven't changed. I just don't need to pretend to be better than I am anymore, not for you."

"I suppose not. Quite frankly, you never should have."

"You have always been too smart for your own good."

***

"I got you a skull," Jim says when he enters the flat. He digs said skull from the sports bag, smiles at it, and places it on the mantelpiece. 

Well, this is certainly new.

Sherlock looks up and smiles. There should be some kind of legal limit as to how surreal his life can get. In his mind, he sends a quiet but heartfelt _fuck you_ to the mysterious space man who is out there, somewhere, helping children go insane. 

"Why did you get me a skull, Jim?"

"You need someone to talk to."

"I have you, don't I?"

"Someone who listens, honey."

"How kind."

He still doesn't feel at ease. It's probably a good thing, though; one should never feel at ease when one spends as much time with James Moriarty as Sherlock does. Nevertheless. It's a gnawing sensation, worry, restlessness. He turns his eyes back at his book, but the words lose their meanings as he reads, and turn into nothing more but stains on paper. He remembers nothing of what he's read.

"Come on. Stop overanalysing things," Jim says, and his voice is a threat. "It's a present. Just say thank you."

Sherlock looks at Jim in a way he knows full well to be infuriatingy superior. Jim rolls his eyes and walks to the window. His posture changes. Please do not look this way, and leave me alone. Like a three-year-old who doesn't get his way. It's nothing new.

"Thank you for getting me a skull, Jim."

"You didn't deserve it."

"Where'd you get a skull anyway?"

"It wouldn't be any fun if you knew who it was, now would it?"

"I'm starting to think you might suspect I wouldn't approve."

"You generally don't approve of murder, I've noticed. But I think you need a skull. And just nicking one from the morgue would be kind of dull, don't you think? I wanted this to be special."

Sherlock stands up, closes his eyes, pointedly does _not_ look at Jim.

"You killed someone so that you could get me a skull?"

"Well it had to be special. Obviously."

"Clearly. Might I ask how special, exactly?"

"Like I said, you would probably rather not know."

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He needs a moment. He needs a moment to realise that this man, this crazy murderer, his best friend since he was sixteen (not that, never that, but significant, significant, something, _God help me_ ), has just killed someone he knows, and there is no reason, not really, just _let me show you the power I have over you, let me show you how far I'm willing to go_. Sherlock needs to accept the facts, and calm the hell down, because this isn't helping, that he is losing his cool when he needs it the most. There are thoughts that seem unfamiliar, yet discustingly likely. _I knew this would happen. I always knew. I shouldn't have let him close. I shouldn't have done this_. He has made a mistake, and it cannot be undone. It was a lapse in judgement, and now it has cost someone's life. 

Again, says a small voice inside him, but he ignores it.

When it hits him, it almost throws him off-balance. Sherlock takes a breath, closes his eyes for a second, _I am calm_ , but his realisation is still there, real as ever. This will not be the last time Jim will kill for his sake. When he runs his fingers through his hair, agitated, his hands are shaking a little. When he speaks, his voice is thick and hoarse. 

"I do hope you realise that I will know who it is when one of the officers in Scotland Yard is either reported missing or found decapitated."

"Reported missing, obviously. I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not. You're just out of your mind." A short pause, and then, "I cannot believe you did this."

"It wasn't anybody from Scotland Yard, if you really want to know. That wouldn't have been any fun. You think most of them are useless, anyway, and quite right, I'm afraid. Oh, no. It was Victor Trevor."

"Jim." Sherlock's knees almost give, and for a moment, he can't breathe. Jealous, his brain kindly supplies, but he refuses to believe it. Victor was his friend, the closest thing he ever had to one, and Jim knew that. But he wouldn't have. Sherlock desperately looks for another explanation, already painfully certain that he's not going to find anything. Jim _wouldn't have_. Sherlock knows he's lying to himself.

"I don't see why it's such a big deal. You need to breathe, Sherlock, darling, before your brain gets all fuzzy."

"I will hand you in."

"No, you won't."

He won't. And he knows it. Jim knows that, too. The thing with Sherlock Holmes is, once you've figured him out, he's easy to read. Jim knows everything about Sherlock, every inch of his skin and every fibre of his being, every corner of his mind, his logic. This is what Jim thinks, and he's frighteningly close to the truth. Sherlock has reached a limit. This is as surprising as he can be. This is what he can do, according to the picture Jim has formed of him. 

Sherlock can read the realisation in Jim's eyes, and he smirks. There is still something Sherlock can do, that Jim will not expect. 

"I could just walk out. I could never see you again." _Because this is too much_ , Sherlock doesn't say. He doesn't need to, because what he means is written all over him, and that's true for both of them; what they don't say rings louder in their ears than anything they voice out loud. But for them, honesty was never a virtue. 

When Jim speaks, he's almost singing like he always was, every single time, and Sherlock can't help but notice.

"That's not true, Sherlock. You need me, you see. Without me, you're nothing." 

_Don't go. Please don't go. My mind will attack me and kill me first._

"No, Jim. That's how you want it to be, when really, it's you who needs me. And I'm ready to ignore that and leave you alone anyway."

_I need you, but I can make due. I will make due, because I must. This is too much, and this is wrong._

"Why would you do that? We are great! We would be. We _will be_. Sherlock." 

_You make me whole. You make me worthy. You keep me alive, Sherlock, and you know it. So stop. Playing. Be there for me. It's all I really want._

"Maybe that is the problem. I'm about to walk away now, Jim. There's only so much I can take." 

_I made a mistake. I should never have let you this far._

"You are weak, Sherlock. You are. You're too considerate, too emotional. You let others get under your skin, and you'll never really be great if you let that happen." 

_I am weak, Sherlock. I am. I'm too wrecked, too emotional. I have let others get under my skin, and I'll never really be great now that I've let that happen._

"Are you really talking about me, Jim? Or are you talking about yourself?" 

_You're talking about yourself, Jim. But what you said is true about me, too, and it frightens me that we are that similar._

Sherlock turns up his coat collar and walks away. Jim smiles, and it's not a beautiful thing. This is the beginning of the end, he realises. This is the story of how I died. And it's not one to be proud of.

"Go home, Jim," Sherlock says, not looking at him, and the door that closes after him makes a sound like one of a prison cell, locked for good. _What have I done_. The thought is gone before Jim can grasp it, and he's happier for it. He doesn't want to think about any of the times Sherlock was right about him.

***

They drift apart. They can't live together, it was never a good thing they had, but one without the other will always be incomplete. I have made enough bad decisions as it is, Sherlock tells himself. I don't need him, I can't need him. 

He never gets rid of the skull, though. 

***

Nothing is ever new, and after countless lonely days in between comes the day, when Jim is locked in a room with no way to go but deeper into his own overbearing madness, all he can think of is Sherlock Holmes. How he wants to get to him, and how he will.

He builds a world out of fairy tales, and lives in it like only he ever could.

Jim does the best he can to destroy Sherlock, because he loves him. He would like to destroy everything that has ever mattered to him, _thank you fuck you bless you_ , but in the end, he must leave his job unfinished. Some things are more important than others, so when Sherlock wants to meet him, he abandons everything on the spot. He kisses Sebastian on the cheek, _you might not see me again but please wipe the blood off your forehead before you look your mother in the eye_. Whatever else Jim might tell himself, leaving Sebastian behind is not effortless. He doesn't turn back, though. He lost that chance long ago.

He lies to Sherlock for the last time. It's as easy as it always was. Effortless and unnecessary, but as elaborate as Sherlock deserves. A bit over the top. You're ordinary, Jim says. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels. But there's so much more that Sherlock deserves to hear. He might have built Sherlock traps, he might have cornered him for the time being, but Sherlock has a way out; as long as he's alive he has a way out, _I know that much about you._

When Jim finally pulls the trigger, feeling the metal of the gun solid, reliable, comforting, _forgiving_ against his teeth, he looks Sherlock in the eye _fear panic astonishment horror surprise_ , and doesn't think _you did this to me_. 

Instead, he thinks about what he said. He has never been more honest in his life. _You're me_. And you saved me, because I needed to be saved after what he did to me. In the end, you destroyed me just like him, but you gave me good days in between.

_Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you._


End file.
